


him who I loved so dearly

by chajatta



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: M/M, Semi-Public Sex, fooling around in the tartarus fountain room, that's it that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:33:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29719332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chajatta/pseuds/chajatta
Summary: "Patroclus," Achilles breathes. His voice echoes across the great fountain room of Tartarus, sweet as a long forgotten summer breeze. Patroclus shifts, runs his hands down the naked expanse of Achilles' back, and Achilles swallows hard."Why do you say my name so?" Patroclus asks. He brings one hand up, cradles the hinge of Achilles' jaw, and Achilles yields beneath him.or, Achilles and Patroclus share more than just a bath in the fountain chamber of Tartarus
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 101





	him who I loved so dearly

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write these two in Hades canon for the longest time. Full disclosure, I was inspired by [this](https://twitter.com/eldhug/status/1314983199949369345?s=20) gorgeous fanart by eldhug on Twitter. 
> 
> Title is from the Iliad

_Death is an evil.  
That’s what the gods think.  
Or they would die._  
**\- Sappho, fragment 34**

A drop of water slides down the proud slope of Achilles' nose, then tracks along his jaw and neck before it disappears. It probably evaporates in the heat, but Achilles doesn't pay it any attention. How could he pay attention to anything but the man beside him, the touch of his hands and the tickle of his beard as they kiss. 

Shades have no business being this warm, but Patroclus is hotter than the fires of Asphodel against him. Achilles can feel it, too, burning beneath his skin, all the way to the damp tips of his fingers. 

"Patroclus," Achilles breathes. His voice echoes across the great fountain room of Tartarus, sweet as a long forgotten summer breeze. Patroclus shifts, runs his hands down the naked expanse of Achilles' back, and Achilles swallows hard. 

"Why do you say my name so?" Patroclus asks. He brings one hand up, cradles the hinge of Achilles' jaw, and Achilles yields beneath him. 

"I like the way it sounds," Achilles says. Patroclus strokes his thumb over the open bow of his mouth and Achilles sucks it in, briefly, works the tip with his tongue. "The way it feels in my mouth. I spent so long keeping thoughts of you inside, now I would let them flow freely between us." 

Patroclus smiles. He had never been quick to smile in life and Achilles is pleased to see that hasn't changed - it makes each one he does deign to share precious beyond thought.

They kiss again, the water sloshing between their bodies as Achilles moves from the open crook of Patroclus' legs until he's straddling his lover's thighs. Achilles always loved the way he felt, strong and sure and safe, and he loves it all the more now. 

Patroclus moves one hand to his hips, the small of his back, while the other holds fast at his chin, guiding the kiss. They used to burn, his kisses, back when they were alive. Achilles remembers the two of them as boys, not yet come into manhood, kissing in the shadows of Mount Pelion. Stubble had grown on Patroclus' mouth and chin even then and Achilles had protested, laughing, at the rash it left behind, on his own mouth and his throat, the plain of his stomach and the soft insides of his thighs. Patroclus had just smirked and rubbed it over everywhere he could reach. 

Now, Achilles touches with his fingers. Patroclus' beard is soft and wet, and he croons when Achilles digs his fingers in and scratches. 

"What else could I have you say, I wonder?" Patroclus muses, voice richer than honey, than nectar. He pulls away from Achilles' mouth and works his way down over his jaw, the wet expanse of his neck. Achilles feels his chest tighten and he presses closer, until they're chest to chest. He almost fancies he can feel Patroclus' heart thumping against his.

"I would have you singing like a songbird beneath the pleasure of my touch, my love," he says, mouth hot where Achilles' pulse should be. "My Achilles." 

"Do not tease me so," Achilles breathes, though he knows it is in Patroclus' nature, knows how he delights in it, bringing the mighty Achilles to his knees. "Do as you say." 

Patroclus remains about his throat a moment longer, kissing and sucking with a fervour so great Achilles is sure he intends to stay there for eternity. Then he lifts his head and pins Achilles beneath his gaze. His eyes are dark, his whole body lit from behind in green, and Achilles cannot stand for a moment longer all the places they do not touch. 

"I would sing gladly for you, Patroclus," Achilles says. Patroclus' fingers twitch on hips, then sink lower beneath the water, so close to where Achilles wants them. "If only you would give me cause to." 

Patroclus' handsome mouth twists. He flicks his tongue out, pink and quick as a Flame Wheel, and then pulls Achilles flush against him. Achilles' dick aches and he tips his hips forward, slides it over Patroclus' muscular stomach. 

"Is this what you would seek from me?" Patroclus asks. There's an edge to his voice, sharp as a spearhead, like he's going to make Achilles ask for it. Achilles shudders. 

"It's good," Achilles says. He rocks his hips and Patroclus encourages the motion, his palm flat over the small of Achilles' back and the rise of his ass. "As a starting point." 

Patroclus laughs, low and pleased. "You have become greedy in death, my love." 

Perhaps he has. Achilles always wanted everything Patroclus was willing to offer him in life, too, but this that exists between them now is a different kind of need. But time passes differently in the afterlife. Achilles isn't sure how long they were apart after they died, nor how long it's been since they were reunited, only that it was too long and not long enough, respectively. For all that the afterlife now stretches endlessly before them, Achilles doesn't intend to waste a single moment of it.

"Indeed," Achilles agrees. "I would spend every moment with you, if I could. Like this. Just the two of us." The water around them ripples constantly now, but Achilles has neither the will nor the desire to stop moving. Patroclus slides his thumb into the dark shadow between Achilles' cheeks and they both gasp. "Would you deprive me of such a simple wish?" 

Patroclus scoffs, but the sound is warm and fond. "I do not think," Patroclus starts. He moves his hand and curls it around Achilles' length instead. The drag of the water slows his strokes and Achilles leans into it, tensing his thighs as he presses against Patroclus' broad, bare chest. "I have ever been capable of depriving you of anything." 

Even at his lowest points, of which Achilles is still ashamed to have had so many, Patroclus never forsook him. Disagreed with him, yes, vociferously when Achilles was too pigheaded and obstinate to listen to any counsel except his own, but Patroclus never strayed from his side. Achilles turns his head, presses a soft kiss to the lobe of Patroclus' ear, the thin skin beneath his eye, and then steals the breath from his mouth. 

They remain like that for an age, or perhaps more. Kissing until Achilles' mouth feels swollen, until Achilles feels like Patroclus could wring out the very essence of his soul with just the touch of his hand. 

"Oh, I would have you take me here," Achilles pants when they part. His cheeks are flushed and Achilles can feel the heat all the way down, to his chest and the pit of his stomach. 

Patroclus leans back, the corners of his mouth upturned. "Here? How brazen." 

It's no more brazen than anything they've done in Patroclus' glade in Elysium; if anything, it's less so. The shades here are far less sentient, for the most part, and few are able to visit the fountain chambers. Still, the implication of it, that anyone could float by and find the two of them together, Achilles astride Patroclus as they share their pleasure, lights him up from the inside. 

Achilles says nothing. Instead he reaches forward and takes one of the jars from the edge of the pool. Wordlessly, he presses it into Patroclus' hand and then kisses him again, cradling his chin and stroking his beard the way he knows Patroclus likes. He sighs against Achilles' mouth, but then Achilles hears the tell tale sound of the pot lid coming off and he lifts up, out of the water, baring himself to the cool air of the chamber. 

Patroclus' fingers, when they slip back between his cheeks, are slick and slippery. Achilles pushes back into the touch, sighing as two fingers breach him and slip easily inside. It always feels like completion, in the basest and simplest of ways, having Patroclus with him like this. The joining of two souls, in death as in life. 

"Is that good, love?" Patroclus asks. Achilles nods and leans forward, curls his arms around Patroclus' shoulders and draws him in close. Patroclus nuzzles his nose into Achilles' chest, drops a trail of open kisses, before taking a nipple into his mouth.

"Oh, Pat," Achilles sighs. He cards his fingers into Patroclus' thick, damp hair and holds him, clinging as Patroclus works him open. They did this so many times, when they were alive, beyond count or measure, but it still feels new like this, in the lingering bodies of shades. 

Patroclus slides another finger inside, stretching Achilles open, and all Achilles can hear is the sound of his own voice. Every gasp and moan of Patroclus' name amplified by the cavernous bath chamber. 

Eventually Patroclus deems him ready. Achilles thinks to swap their positions, to lay himself out over the edge of the bath and let Patroclus take him from behind, push his hands up Achilles' muscular back and pull on his hair. But when he goes to climb out of Patroclus' lap, hands come around his waist and hold him tight. 

"Stay," he says, simply. It's not a command; Patroclus would never have presumed to command him, not when they were still living, even though he'd have been the only one that could. Achilles treats it as one all the same. He stills where he is, suspended above Patroclus' lap, thighs trembling. "Achilles," Patroclus says. He's looking up, dark eyes shining, and they keep looking at each other as Patroclus guides him down, back into the water, and feeds his dick inside. 

Achilles can't look away, can't stop cataloguing every inch of his perfect, most beloved face. 

"Achilles," Patroclus says again. He sounds amused. 

With great difficulty, Achilles lowers his gaze and drops his head, presses kisses to the open hollow of Patroclus' throat. 

"How I love you," Achilles breathes. Patroclus pushes his hips up and Achilles gasps, runs his fingers reverently over Patroclus' skin. 

"You have grown sentimental, as well," he teases. Achilles laughs and bears down, rocking his hips until the water between them ripples. His Myrmidons had not been a sentimental people and Achilles had often thought it because he took the lion's share, ruled by his emotions as he was. Still is, though he likes to believe his rage, at least, has cooled with death. 

"Have I not always been a sentimental old fool, when it comes to you?" 

Patroclus says nothing, but he smiles and leans up for another kiss. They move together, trading kisses and sweet nothings, Patroclus' hands lingering all over his body. The nape of Achilles' neck, bared by his ponytail, is slick with sweat, and Achilles shudders all over when Patroclus grips it. 

"Like that?" Patroclus asks, as if he doesn't know exactly how Achilles likes it. Still, Achilles nods and Patroclus holds him tighter, using it like an anchor point to push him down harder. "My sweet Achilles." 

Achilles' breath rattles out of him. Patroclus is moving against that spot inside him and the pleasure is rising like a wave, like the fury of Poseidon brought down upon them. "Pat," he manages, quiet, and snakes a hand between their bodies. 

Patroclus' hand moves up his neck, until his fingers sink into the thick blond hair at his nape. Achilles has to close his eyes, head tucked down as he rides Patroclus to their completion. Water sloshes over the side of the bath, running into the cracks between the tiles, and Achilles shakes and shudders through his climax. 

The act of love making is different without a living body, less physical. Achilles feels the pleasure of it deep in his spirit, now, curled warm and deep and satisfied. Patroclus is still hard and hot inside him, but it doesn't last long. His fingers twitch on Achilles' neck, clutch hard, and then he's coming too, his nose buried in Achilles' hair. 

Time doesn't pass the same here, as it did in life. Achilles doesn't know how long they stay coiled together, basking in each other's touch, each other's presence. They do move eventually, though. Patroclus helps Achilles climb from his lap, settles Achilles by his side on the long, stone seat. Their skin sticks together, tacky with sweat, as beneath the water Achilles runs his toes over the jut of Patroclus' ankle, the slender inside of his calf. 

It is a simple yet overwhelming pleasure, being with his love like this. The war that claimed both of their lives and thus separated them in death had been started at the whim of the gods. But for the grace of another, kind and selfless beyond count or measure, they would have remained so, lingering alone in the afterlife until the end of all time. 

Achilles reaches across and tangles his fingers between Patroclus', holding tight as Patroclus lifts their hands to his mouth, grazes a kiss across Achilles' knuckles.

It is a mercy Achilles cannot repay, but one he does not ever intend to waste.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on twitter @chanbubbles if you'd like to come and say hi!


End file.
